pinpoints of light in the foothills I’m down here with a lantern
—
car alarm car alarm car alarm last night of summer
—
most of the Big Dipper first night of autumn
—
in the hills above the city approximations
—
bio/graf
J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
In the cold days of winter, in the heat of summer, even in the rain and hail, an old mother sat staring at the tree that had started to rot on the old bench in front of Uncle Toshpolat’s shop.
Day after day, I pass by this corridor and ask her how she is doing. I liked how the very old mother smiled with kind eyes.
Then I thought that if they sit in this position all day, if they don’t have children, when they are old, if they don’t stand in front of them, they would sit the same way in the cold and in the heat.
I always tried to talk to them, but I didn’t have time because I was busy with work. Days passed. One day, when I was hurrying, I saw them again, unfortunately, they were unconscious. I quickly took her to the hospital. After 2-3 days of treatment in the hospital, they started talking to me. They laughed when I asked why you didn’t talk all this time.
“My child, why did you save me? I have no right to live in this life. I don’t want to live,” they said.
“Don’t say that, Auntie. You will live a long time,” I said.
They said, “Would you come out of the hospital and take me to my place?” I shook my head.
The next day we went together, they sat down and started talking.
“Hey, my daughter, we mothers are giving up ourselves as children, but they don’t call us,” they cried. “Since I was young, I did less than anyone else, I fed without eating, I wore without wearing, it’s not thanks at all, but I didn’t think that my work would be so lowly appreciated,” they said.
“Look, my dear, this tree was beautiful and strong 5-6 years ago. Year after year, this tree was not paid attention to, even water was not poured under it. In time, it dried up and became firewood. Unfortunately, the same is true of mankind. It’s been a long time since my only son, who didn’t take me to heaven, kicked me out of the house until my death.” – he said, his eyes were sparkling with coral tears. “Auntie, go, I’ll take you with me,” I said. When Asta shook her head: “No, my child, I will sit here and wait for my death,” Yuring said.
I was afraid, emergency help came, but her aunt was dead.
The true meaning of the incident that taught me throughout my life, 15 years later, when I came to this village to rest with my grandchildren, the same mother and her son were sitting at the same table, wearing old clothes, leaning on the same rotten tree. Sorry….it’s too late now
The truth I realized is that if you carry your mother on your head, your child will also carry you on his head. Do you despise them? Your children will despise you in time. Don’t forget that this world will give you back. Appreciate everything in time.
Nurullayeva Mashhura was born on December 12, 2006 in Sariosia district of Surkhandarya region. In the same year, she graduated from the 11th grade of the 3rd general education school in Sariosia district. During his school days, she took pride of place in many science Olympiads and competitions. The owner of several international certificates, her stories and poems have been published in international newspapers and magazines. There are many goals in the future.
The fog came furtively in the night and slumped heavily upon the fields. At dawn I wondered, though this mantle is beautiful in its transformation of landscape, will it truly depart, relenting with the sun or will it remain this time, blinding us permanently to our vistas – so that we see only our own hands and nothing else before us? Its impenetrability deafens us, a pall muting the sounds of my small world, stifling dear familiar voices. I am inclined to whisper as there is uncertainty in what I might be missing. I surmise it is for this eventuality that pianists memorize an entire concerto, why actors rehearse lengthy monologues, why we weep over an aria.
I was not acquainted with Aunt Aurelia’s voice as she died, a young woman, of appendicitis, twenty years before me. All that is left of her is a receipt for a dress for $2.35 bought in Akron, Ohio, her grave in Saint Luke’s Cemetery, and a few photographs. From her image I’d like to believe I may have enjoyed a memory of her voice. There’s now no one left to remember her conversations around the kitchen table with her mother and sisters.
(True, gratefully, I’ve nearly gotten my mother’s shrill voice out of my head – a finality to her mania. But this preference is the exception.) I have a cassette recording of my therapist’s voice, my surrogate big sister, reading The Velveteen Rabbit. When I was a lost young man, it was a simple and effective (though somewhat embarrassing) tool in soothing long empty evenings in empty rooms – saving me from my own desolation. She died of cancer this year. This remnant, this flimsy ribbon cannot be all that’s left of her voice.
It is my terror that a fog will surreptitiously descend upon my memory – that I’ve nearly forgotten my father’s voice – that I may somehow misplace my beloved’s. If I cannot recall the subtle wit and intimacy in her tone, how may I hope to navigate my days? I comprehend the inevitability of my annihilation. I embrace the certainty. However, I am plagued by the horror that my wife and children will forget my timbre, my tenor, my laughter – that my voice will fade over time, unintentionally becoming too wearisome for anyone to recollect. There is no other aspect of my mortality that frightens me.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
The onset of the A.I. Age will render the Homo Sapiens (‘Thinking/Wise Man’) a museum artifact (?)
***
The Absurd Brachyura that got Clasped in the Chelae of Metaphysics
after The false mirror by Rene Magritte (Belgium), 1928 C.E.
for L. Jacobs & E. Rahim
In the very essence, both the prefixes—mono ‘n poly—bear the same in/ex/trinsic value!
Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) – bilingual poet-philosopher & literary translator – has been brought up and educated in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. His new collection of poems, Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021), is an homage to vers libre, prose poem, and ekphrasis. He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His poetry and micro/flash fiction appear in The Ekphrastic Review, The Mackinaw, Synchronized Chaos, Lotus-eater, two Anthologies by Kevin Watt (ed.), and two e-Anthologies at TER. He has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. His ekphrases have been showcased at the Bleeding Borders, Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector et alia. He enjoys learning different languages, playing chess, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.facebook.com/owlofpines.
The Doorman Cometh
Put it down to the
weather. I was heading
out to the garden when
some lines from John
Donne opened the door
for me. Death be not proud,
though some have called
thee mighty & dreadful.
Heavy shit for such a
mundane activity, a holy
sonnet where what I
wanted was something
more along the lines of
Whistle while you work.
Why I became a painter
Only if they
could also sing
were rhythm
guitarists part
of the bands
of the sixties.
A Crime of Podiatry
My big toe is
bitten off by an
angry word. It
swallows it, then
runs away. I
call the police who
take a statement &
then take me down
to the station to
look at mugshots.
The words they
show me are all
single syllabled.
I tell them that
none of those
could have done
it —to get pur-
chase on my toe
the word would
have to have had
at least two syl-
lables. The police
now realize they
might be dealing
with a master
criminal so send
me off to the major
crimes squad. They
have dictionaries
to look through.
The sight of
seen things going
past in the air. Not
even. The sound
of. Enough. Comp-
rehension is akin to
pregnancy. Not. Either.
No need to know
the exactitudes of
shape, of surface
texture. Half-guessed
sufficient. Why try &
grasp, catch hold of, be
weighed down by?
A game of Pelota
The whiter the light
the higher the
temperature. It was
the proper name
of the Sphinx &
could not be expiated
even though its orbit
lay within that of
the earth. Gods crouched
before it like dogs as the
war dragged on, during
which time the embryo
refused to grow. Finally
transferred to parchment
it was then cut
with a jagged edge
so that the two parts
could be matched later
for authenticity. So true
to nature as to preclude
alternative treatment.
They loved it. We played it a lot. A review of the game
says it all: “Order Up puts the ‘short’ back in ‘short-order cook,’
but virtual cooking has never been more engaging”—think about it;
it’s a Monday, a work day, customers are pouring in
placing orders with little time to wait around,
maybe they’ve got a half-hour or so for lunch, it’s called
“fast food” for a reason. I once knew a social media
content creator who got fired because she took too
long a lunch break, she was “stealing” time on company time
they said so this is serious business, wolfing down a Big Mac
and fries is an eating skill essential for the average Jane or Joe.
In other words, this is nothing to play around with, except in your spare time, on PlayStation. If you’re ever at
a Waffle House or other diner worth its name pay attention to
the cook who’s manning the grill, it’s a culinary operatic ballet:
Adam and Eve on a raft, 86 the Axle grease, BLT hold
the mayo, Blue plate special, Bowl of red, Tube steak deluxe,
synchrony in motion. There’s close to one million short order cooks
employed in the United States according to one recent estimate.
Most don’t have time to play games.
Afterword: “Trump visited a Bucks County McDonald’s to cook some french fries and work the drive-thru” the news headline says it all. In a post-truth world, deepfake, simulated, virtual has become an accepted stand in for real. If only Orwell was yet among us, he’d have a field day!
Howard Richard Debs is a recipient of the 2015 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Awards. His essays, fiction and poetry appear internationally; his art and photography will be found in select publications, including Rattle online as “Ekphrastic Challenge” artist and guest editor. His book Gallery: A Collection of Pictures and Words is a 2017 Best Book Awards and 2018 Book Excellence Awards recipient. His chapbook Political is the 2021 American Writing Awards winner in poetry. He is co-editor of New Voices: Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust a winner of the 2023 International Book Awards. He is listed in the Poets & Writers Directory: https://www.pw.org/content/howard_debs
Libraries are very important in the life of all people. Libraries play a significant role in the live of all people who strive for knowledge. We can find all kinds of books in the libraries: novels, biographies, fictions, short stories, books for children and so on. In some libraries you can also get access to their electronic resources or the Internet. Libraries can be found in many places. Schools, universities and organizations often have one. Today there are libraries in nearly every city, town and village. The assortment of books in our school library is very diverse. There are many short stories and novels, reference books and textbooks, dictionaries and encyclopedias there.
Aymatova Aziza was born on February 24, 2009 in Almalyk, Tashkent region. She is a 9th grader. Until now, she has written dozens of poems. Hobbies include reading and drawing. Currently studying English and Turkish. Having studied languages in the Ibrat Academy application, she received English and Russian language course certificates and participated in many online tests and contests.
